Brew Me Another, Break My Heart
by Socrates7727
Summary: After the war, Draco had very few job options. He wasn't proud of it, but black market dealing fit him. He was good at procuring things that were difficult to come by, and he was even better at brewing illegal potions. He never, ever asked questions. Until Harry Potter shows up in his office demanding a potion refill like some kind of addict... HPDM h/c themes warnings inside


AN I do not own HP or any of the characters! TRIGGER WARNINGS: Addition, mentions of drug (ish) use, potentially more in later installments.. HPDM planned but only hinted in this chapter. Enjoy!

* * *

After the war, Draco had very few job options. His family's wealth and estate had been seized—rightfully—following his parents' imprisonment and Draco was left to fend for himself. He wasn't proud of it, but black market dealing fit him. He had many connections left over from his father, and many more tolerated his meddling because the mark on his arm granted him a sick, fearful sort of respect. They weren't afraid of him, per se, but they were definitely uncomfortable.

Potions were his forte, though he traded in all things illegal or Ministry-regulated, but he enjoyed meeting his clientele almost as much as obtaining the requested items. It was no Shacklebolt that knocked on his door, but it was interesting. Blaise came almost daily—half for Draco's company, and half for the triple-strength firewhiskey. Pansy had come in once, looking for her family ring which had been taken as part of the Parkinson reparations, and an old schoolmate or two had even dropped by, looking for quick money or soft drugs.

Draco's pride and anxiety had reached a new high when Longbottom had stepped into his shop, eyes down as if the air itself could taint him. A professor now, apparently, but Longbottom still looked at him with that Gryffindor sneer.

"I need a potion, off the books." Draco gestured for him to sit.

"All of my sales are off the books, Longbottom. What are you looking for?" The last name made him jolt, but Longbottom kept it together for the most part. He really had changed since Hogwarts… Well, that made two of them, even if no one chose to see it.

"I need something that will resurrect the dead." Longbottom stuttered over the syllables, but he was completely serious. Draco had a reputation of never asking questions and he held himself to that, though his skin burned with curiosity. He merely folded his hands and nodded.

"For how long?" Longbottom paled, as if he hadn't really expected Draco to agree to it.

"As long as possible." One nod was all it took. Longbottom stood, Draco gave him a price and a timeframe, and their business was done. Draco was very careful to speak only in hypotheticals, and only with those he trusted or understood. He was also, however, living paycheck to paycheck most days and he was in no position to refuse work. He made the potion, he didn't ask questions, and Longbottom paid. That was that.

Or, at least, Draco had thought that he was done with the Gryffindors. Until another one walked through the door. He would have expected a rowdy student, or an elderly and bitter old man, but he was not expecting the Gryffindor Golden Boy himself. Harry Potter stumbled in through his door, eyes red and skin paler than it'd been after the battle of Hogwarts.

"I hear you can get things for people." Draco nodded, gesturing for Potter to sit, but the auror merely grabbed the back of the chair for support.

"I can, for a price."

"I need Revitalization potions." He said it firmly, without question, but Draco could sense a bit of desperation. Where was the well-adjusted savior? Where was the happily married father of three, or the renowned auror of the Ministry? Was he… drunk?

"Plural? How many?" Potter glared at him, but then seemed to remember their situation and softened his gaze.

"As many as you can get me. I can pay." Draco had no doubt that the Savior of the Wizarding World had money, but he still frowned. As many as possible? What kind of request was that? Five potions? A hundred?

"Why?" He never asked questions—he made at a point to know as little as possible, in case Veritaserum was brought in. But he had to.

"You aren't supposed to care why." Potter was right—Draco knew that—but he couldn't stop himself. Something about the wavering in Potter's voice was just to intriguing.

"If you want the potion, you'll answer my question." Potter glared again. Though he was clearly out of it, Potter seemed to understand that Draco very much could—and would—deny his request if he didn't answer.

"My prescription ran out yesterday and I can't get more until next month." Draco hummed in understanding. Prescription, though? Since when did perfect Potter need prescribed potions?

"What was the dosage?" Another glare, but Potter knew the position he was in.

"One every other day." Internally, Draco raised an eyebrow. That was an incredibly high dosage, and he doubted that Potter had gotten it without throwing around some fame or some galleons. Still, even with the high dosage, he wanted more? Something didn't seem right…

"How many doses are you taking a day?" He could guess, of course, given the prescription's dosage and when Potter had run out but he wanted to be sure. The auror narrowed his eyes.

"It's so I know how much I need to make. Relax, Potter." Potter did not relax, but he did look to the desk. Was that embarrassment tinting his cheeks? Draco found it hard to believe, and yet Potter looked like a child being yelled at for eating all the treacle tarts. Slowly, he took a breath.

"Four." If Draco had been drinking something, he would have spit it out right then and there. Surely, Potter was fucking with him. No one in their right mind would take even two potions a day, let alone four, but now that he was studying the man he could see the signs. Potter was a powerful wizard, but his talent was clearly not in glamours. Four a day… Merlin, how was Potter even _alive_? Looking at him now, though, Draco could see that he was hanging by a thread.

He could report Potter, or give him to Granger and the Weasel… Something told him that that wouldn't help, though, and might actually make it worse. He could refuse to make the potion, but he was hardly the only dealer of black market potions and Potter would just go somewhere else. He could—and arguably should—have dropped Potter at St. Mungo's and washed his hand of the whole mess. Abusing a potion prescription, though, was a serious offense and Potter would likely lose his job. Not to mention Draco bringing him in would raise so many questions, even if he did it anonymously.

Draco could have done a lot of things in his situation, and he wasn't sure why he even cared about Potter losing his job or his reputation. Realistically, Potter needed hospitalization. He needed potion drips and withdrawal treatments, not to mention and assessment of internal damage—none of which Draco could provide in his back-alley office. Some part of him refused to accept that he was not the person to help Potter, though. Maybe he still felt like he owed the Gryffindor a debt, for pulling him from the flames or, at the very least, for testifying at his trial. He hadn't asked him to, of course, but, ever the savior, Potter had stepped in anyways.

"Well?" Draco sighed, chewing his lower lip as he studied Potter. Potion addiction was serious, he knew that better than most, but at least it wasn't a pain potion. He doubted that Potter had taken the time or the mental energy to research how potions actually worked, but most management potions—like pain potions, or energizing potions—were meant to be taken in a small, constant dosage. It did not counter or treat anything, it just delayed it.

Normally, pain potions were taken to delay pain until it could be managed with spells or medicines. Energy potions were taken to delay exhaustion, and the taker was meant to sleep for a minimum of twelve hours after it wore off. Potter had been delaying and delaying for Merlin knows how long now… It was risky, but Draco's intuition had already made its choice. Wordlessly, he nodded.

"I only have one premade right now, but I'll start a batch right away." Merlin it was a bad idea. Potter had been taking Revitalizing potions for a long time, clearly, and he would know immediately that it wasn't right. Draco was banking, however, on that glassy look in Potter's eyes the desperate shaking of his hands.

"Here." He handed over the bottle, praying that Potter wouldn't notice, and held his breath.

"I like the bottles you use." Draco said nothing. Potter didn't know potions—he'd been shit at them in school, and he didn't seem to have improved since—and he didn't remember much. Specifically, that powerful potions like the Revitalization potion couldn't be kept in thin, glass containers. Thankfully, Potter removed the cork and downed the potion in one gulp.

"That didn't taste—" He hit the ground with a thud.

"Sorry, Potter," Draco mumbled. "You can hate me when you aren't inches from death." A light snore was all he got in response. The Sleeping Draught wouldn't hurt Potter, though the fall might have created a few bruises, but now that he was resting he would be out for hours, if not days. Fuck, what was Draco supposed to do with an unconscious man in his office? He really hadn't thought this through… If he had, he would have told Potter that he had the potion in his apartment, and he would have apparated them before drugging the Chosen One.

The Ministry was going to be all over him… Fuck! How was he supposed to explain Potter's absence? Panic welled in his chest. He was going to Azkaban after all, apparently, and he tried to laugh about it. A family reunion was well overdue, right? And yet, he wanted to throw up or disappear into the shadows before anyone could come for him.

Potter was out cold on his floor, though. He'd drugged the man, the least he could was not leave to wake up to the side effects on his own. Swearing under his breath, Draco grabbed a case and began frantically packing every potion and ingredient he could imagine needing, before latching onto Potter's arm. Merin! When had that scrawny Gryffindor seeker become sheer fucking muscle!? He apparated them with a _crack!_

* * *

Draco sat on the floor of his bedroom, staring at the man in his bed. In retrospect, yes, it had been a horrible idea to drug a man strung out on energy potions with a sleeping draught. He stared at the auror, watching his chest rise and fall in shallow little breaths. It was amazing to him that Potter was even breathing.

For almost five hours, now, Draco had been fighting the man's body just to keep him alive. He was exhausted, trembling so badly that he'd broken an empty potion bottle, and he was out of everything from phoenix tears to Hagraven blood. Even if his eyes were watering, begging for rest, he couldn't take them off of his patient. Potter's breathing was the only thing keeping him from having a panic attack.

Drugging Potter had been a bad idea but, now five hours later, what's done was done and Potter was going to be alright. Merlin forbid he need another blood transfusion, though, because Draco had absolutely none left but his own—which would not work until he knew Potter's blood type. He needed Hagraven blood, but how was he supposed to get it? There was only one person he could think of that would actually go and get the blood from Knockturn Alley, but that person would die before she helped him. Still, he didn't know what else to do. Potter clearly wasn't close enough to his friends anymore for them to have intervened, but Draco had to hope that they were all still bleeding heart Gryffindors.

Biting his lip, Draco cast about a hundred monitoring charms on his bed and moved into the kitchen. He did not have a fireplace—as most muggle apartments did not come with a floo network—but he did have an oven that, arguably, did not actually work. Not for the first time that day, Draco wondered what the hell he was doing. Before he could back out, however, he threw the powder and conjured a flame which immediately caught into a bright blue fire.

"Ministry of Magic, Hermione Granger." It flared red, and Draco cursed himself. "Hermione Weasley." There was a very long pause, in which he could imagine her seeing the location and the caller pop up, deliberating over whether or not she should answer it. Finally, she appeared.

"You have ten seconds to convince me to listen or I'm hanging up." Draco was not surprised, but he still sighed.

"I have Potter." Silence, and then Draco heard the very distinct sound of a locking spell. So Granger was taking him seriously after all.

"If this is a ransom call, you've got the wrong person. You're better off calling Ginny." A ransom call? He wasn't rich anymore, true, but he was by no means reduced to kidnapping and ransoming off people.

"Calm down, he isn't a hostage. It's a very long, very _private_ story but he's alright for the moment. I can't leave, though, and I need you to get me something in case he crashes again." Hermione was evidently blindsided, to say the least, but she recovered quickly. Draco was reminded instantly of why he'd liked her best during their school years—secretly, of course. There was an intelligence in her way of existing that was comfortingly familiar. She squinted at him, though.

"I want to see him before I do anything." That was fair. Draco would have loved to say that he'd been expecting it but his mind was sluggish and running on adrenaline. Instead, he merely nodded his consent and Hermione stepped through the oven. If she was disgusted by his living conditions, she didn't show it.

"Malfoy." It was a greeting, more or less, but Draco wasn't interested in social niceties at the moment. Every second of chitchat was a second closer to Potter potentially crashing.

"In here." He led her to the bedroom, and gestured to his patient. She ran three quick examination spells—no doubt to make sure that Draco hadn't hurt him, or imprisoned him somehow—but he apparently passed her test. He had to give her credit, because she was far less emotion or rash than he'd been expecting.

"What do you need?" Thank Merlin. He was taking a huge risk by letting her in and he hoped that she would help, but he hadn't really been counting on it. Wordlessly, he scribbled down a note.

"Give this to Brahms. Third alcove on the left in Knockturn Alley. He'll give you a hard time, especially because you work with the Ministry, but this should convince him. I need Hagraven blood—as much as possible, at least a pint. Here." He handed over a coin purse, full aware that that was quite literally all he had, and drew out six galleons.

"This bribe should be enough. If he demands more, threaten to search him for illegal phoenix feathers and he'll clam up." Hermione weighed the pouch in her hands, giving him a look.

"Is Hagraven blood really this expensive?" Draco sighed. He didn't want to lie, but he also didn't want to tell her to the truth.

"No, but you're an outsider so he'll demand a higher price to compensate the risk. I'm not in a position to haggle, so the price is normally raised for me anyway." Hermione frowned, but thankfully decided not to comment.

"Okay. Do you need anything else? Aside from sleep?" She gestured to his hands, which were still shaking at his sides. It would have been so much cheaper to just go himself… He couldn't leave Potter, though, and even being in the next room filled him with anxiety. Why? He had no idea, honestly.

"Okay. I'll be back as soon as I can. You should rest while I'm gone, though. You look like shit and I don't want to have to deal with a blood transfusion on my own." Draco gave her a small nod, but he already knew that he wouldn't be sleeping. Not until he had the Hagraven blood, at least. Hermione apparated with a little _pop!_ and Draco slipped back into his bedroom to watch his patient's breathing. He wasn't sure why he was watching—he couldn't do anything, even if Potter did start to crash again—but he couldn't look away. Damn, he should have asked Hermione if she knew his blood type. Hopefully, she would be quick about it.

The exhaustion hit him like a curse, but he kept his eyes open until they burned. He blinked, finally, but his eyes refused to open again. Dammit. He cast another three monitoring charms, trying his hardest to make sure they could wake him if Potter so much as a twitched in his sleep, but he had no idea if they would actually work. When he fell asleep, propped against his nightstand, it was with a sigh of defeat.

* * *

Draco woke with a horrible jolt. It was like he'd forgotten something important, but couldn't remember what. He reached for his wand, but recoiled with a yelp when his hand collided with the sharp edge of a shelf. What the hell?

"Hey, you're up." Hermione handed him a mug of something warm, but he hesitated to drink it.

"Oh, hush. I didn't poison it if that's what you're thinking. Here," She took the mug back, and gulped down some of the liquid. "See? Perfectly fine." He relented and drank, because he throat was raw for some reason. IT was sweet. Why was it sweet, though? Draco didn't own any sweet tea, or even sugar to put in tea, so what the hell was in—

"I didn't poison it for Merlin's sake, Malfoy. I went out and got some groceries while you were asleep after dropping off the blood." She held out her hand, offering a little leather pouch. Wait, what? There shouldn't have been anything left from the Hagraven blood.

"Brahms' daughter was there when I went to see him. She's friends with our daughter, Ruby, so I was able to get the price down to a fair deal. Don't worry, I didn't spend anything on the groceries, either. I told Ron it was my turn to bring snacks to the office." Draco could only stare at her. Why was she helping him? He stole a glance at Potter, who was sleeping peacefully with a more normal breathing pattern, and he saw with relief a huge bottle of blood. Thank Merlin.

"Thank you. You didn't have to do that." Hermione shrugged.

"How is he?" Right. She was only here because Potter was asleep in his bed. Because stupid Potter just _had_ to get himself addicted to a potion and he just _had_ to show up on Draco's doorstep.

"As well as can be expected. Did you know?" Hermione hadn't asked what had happened, yet, so it wasn't a wild assumption, but she just sighed.

"I suspected. He's been pushing Ron and I away, though, and we thought he was just struggling because he and Ginny have been fighting, but… I don't know. I didn't want to believe it, honestly, and every time we tried to reach out he just pushed us farther away. How bad is it?" They both looked to Potter. For the first time since Potter had waltzed back into his life, Draco took the time to really study his patient. Potter wasn't wearing his auror robes, or even a suit. He'd come in the middle of the day, but clearly he hadn't come from work, which only raised more questions.

"He said he was up to four whole doses a day. I'm surprised he could even walk into my office, let alone function as an auror and a father." He hadn't meant to throw that second part in, but Hermione didn't seem to notice.

"Ginny's had the kids with Molly for the last few weeks. Harry is an amazing father and he loves those kids with all his heart, but… It's been hard, lately." Draco just nodded—he wasn't going to pry for information that she didn't want to share, even if he was curious. Hermione, though, seemed to be in a talkative mood.

"Why did you take him in?" That… was not the question that Draco had been expecting. He'd been ready for a sob story, for some tragic bombshell, or even for Hermione to just up and leave without another word now that her part of the deal was done but-come to think of it, why _had_ he taken Potter under his wing?

"If the Savior himself died in my office, there's no court or Wizengamot in the world that wouldn't hang me on the spot. Plus, it's bad for business." Hermione scowled at him, but thankfully kept those opinions relatively to herself. So what if he was selfish? It'd been years and he didn't really have any other choice because no one was going to hand him anything on a silver platter anymore. Now, everything he did was to keep his own head above water.

"You're still an asshole. I should have known better." Draco didn't bother denying that, he just watched Harry's chest rise and fall in that steady little rhythm that he was beginning to love.

"I could have dropped him at St. Mungo's or just tossed him through your floo." It wasn't supposed to be antagonistic and the last thing Draco wanted right now was to argue or fight when he was still so exhausted but… He couldn't help it. There were too many Gryffindors in his apartment and there were too many memories in his head.

"You could have." Hermione was not angry, though. She looked almost pensive and she glanced between him and Potter like there was something only she could see. She didn't say it, but he heard the second half of that thought—you could have, _so why didn't you?_ Honestly, he didn't want to think about the answer to that question.

"He saved my life during the battle. I owed him, now I don't. Don't make this into something it isn't, Granger." Beside him, Hermione chewed her lower lip and sipped at the tea but didn't comment again. Maybe she could tell that her voice was wearing thin on him? He hadn't been around so many people so constantly since the days of his parents' parties and, as much as he hated to admit it, he'd become somewhat of a hermit over the years.

"He's lucky that you owed him, then." He nodded, but his stomach lurched at that sentence alone. This wasn't about debt. He couldn't say what it _was_ about and he had no idea why he'd done it still but he knew it wasn't out of obligation. Draco Malfoy was many things, but he was not a bleeding-heart Gryffindor. Which really only left one option, but… There was no way that he _cared_ about Potter, was there?

* * *

Thanks for reading! Please, please review and let me know if I should continue!


End file.
